


Past Lives

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 19th Century, AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Ancient Rome, Britpop, Elizabethan, First Meetings, Fluff, Historical AU, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Reincarnation, Renaissance, Revolutionary War, World War II, they manage to keep finding each other somehow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, across ages and continents, John keeps meeting the same man.</p>
<p>Somehow, they always fit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this at least a year ago & never posted it -- then the bug hit me again & suddenly we have a second chapter.  
> The song that made it all happen is Past Lives by Borns.

Snow swirled around John and Sherlock, and the city was muffled around them. John smiled up at Sherlock, his face clear and open. 

“How did I forget?” he asked in disbelief. Sherlock smiled.

 

_Through all of my lives, I never thought I’d wait so long for you_

_The timing is right, the stars are aligned_

 

When Sherlock woke in 1943, he knew John was gone. He could feel his absence like a dull ache in his spine. He scowled at the thought; he hadn’t even _found_ John in this life, and still, he could feel the absence. Sherlock huffed and turned over in his bed, restless.

In a desert outside of Algiers, John took a gasping breath and the pain fired back to life.

It was months later, after a dreary convalescence home and a bleak bedsit in London, that John ran into an old friend. Pleasantries faded into mild awkwardness, when Mike said the most beautiful words John had ever heard: “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

Something inside John clicked into place, and he followed Mike blindly to the hospital where they’d studied, so many years ago. Before the army, before the war had broken out. Before Germany and the blasted campaign in North Africa.

When Sherlock looked up from his microscope and saw the soldier standing there, every cell in his body cried out _John_.

 

 

In the center of the stadium, John gripped his sword and shifted it from his right hand to his left. The sting in his shoulder made him flinch, but he steeled himself; the fight wasn’t over yet. The dull roar of the crowd faded as John parried and lunged, feeling the sun bake each fresh layer of sweat on his skin. With only a weary thought about the loss of human life, he dealt the final blow and played his part, acting out victory. The shouting mass had no idea, he thought, what it was like to kill. To be made to kill. He raised his arms above his head, not bothering to disguise the contempt on his face.

In the emperor’s box, a tall, slim man perked up for the first time. A fight held no interest for Sherlock; but a warrior was a different matter entirely. He glanced at his brother, who nodded slightly.

Hours later, John sharpened his sword and oiled his armor in the gladiator’s compound. He wasn’t chained, but it was a near thing. He knew in his bones that he was still a commodity, to be bought and sold, until his glory faded and he died in that sandy pit, just as the men he’d fought today had died. John’s thoughts and his task occupied him fully; he didn’t notice the servant until he cleared his throat.

“You’re wanted for a demonstration,” the man said. He was clearly a slave, but of a wealthy family. His shackles would be golden, if the rich stooped to such levels. John rolled his eyes, but stood up silently, moving to put his armor back on. “Leave it,” the man said. John shrugged and followed him to a practice ring. In the center, there was a man with dark, curly hair, studying a sword like a book, rather than a weapon. John knew without explanation that it didn’t belong to the stranger; it was a common weapon, and this man’s countenance was anything but common. Sherlock turned to face John.

“I could describe to you every blow this sword has ever made,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I have no doubt that would bore you; you’ve seen the last six, at least.” With that, he took a fighting stance opposite John. A moment’s pause, and then he struck the first blow. Steel met steel as John blocked it easily; the metallic clash reverberated no more than usual, but John recoiled. Something about this man put his hair on end.

After Sherlock had disarmed John and led him through the twisting streets of Rome on a harebrained chase, after breathlessly offering him a way out of the fighting pits, after glancing at John in such a painful, shy way, John took his face in both hands and pressed their lips together. The next few hours passed in a blur. When John woke up tangled in sheets worth more than his life, he looked over at the man lying next to him. He marveled at his courage, making such a brash move on such a powerful man. John could only say that he knew, somewhere deep inside, that kissing Sherlock was his only option. It was the only choice he had. So in the morning, when Sherlock woke in the first of many strops, John did it again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bloody waves_ , John thought, as he heaved up another meal and glared at the sea. _Bloody Harry. Bloody America_. Getting on board another ship, this time bound for England, had decidedly not been his idea. But Harry was the only family he had left; and now that he was nothing more than a damned redcoat, he may as well slink home and sulk there. It wouldn’t do any good to sulk here, surrounded by revolutionaries who saw him as a traitor. Everything in John wanted to scream out, _I am one of you!_ But he didn’t dare. The Crown’s reach was still too strong. He was bound not to King and Country – but to his own word. Miserable, he gagged once again over the side of the ship. 

“I could give you something for that,” John heard a posh voice say. He straightened up, attempting to hold onto a small portion of his dignity.

“There’s nothing reliable for sea sickness,” he informed the stranger, who hummed.

“Ah yes, a doctor. Well, ‘modern’ medicine hasn’t devised anything reliable. Some of us have other ideas.” The scorn in his voice was clear – the owner of this voice did not regard modern medicine highly. John bristled and turned, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.

“How did you know I’m a doctor?”

The tall, dark man grinned.

“I could show you,” he said.

 

Back in the man’s cabin – much larger than John’s own – he marveled at the precarious instruments balanced on every surface and wondered how they did not slide every which way, each time the sea changed its mind. Sherlock Holmes seemed to know what he was thinking, and waved away the unspoken question. He sat at a desk littered with papers and beckoned John over.

“I trust you’ll be more open-minded than the fools I’ve left behind in Salem,” Sherlock said. “They had half a mind to put us back a hundred years and bring back the trials.”

With that, Sherlock started ranting about old wives’ tales, and the medicinal properties of herbs, and the folly of alchemists. Somehow, out of all the stories, he had gleaned a bit of truth and put it to work for him. John watched him, fascinated, until a sudden realization flashed within him. _Oh,_ he thought.

And when he looked up at Sherlock again, the man was smiling – a smile that was almost tender, sweet. John stood up shakily, walked across the small space, and stood just in front of Sherlock. He tried to catch his breath.

“It’s alright, John. You don’t need to say it,” Sherlock said quietly. “I see it too. The ages – laid out behind us.”

John closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Then he looked up at Sherlock, who studied him not like a science experiment, but like a work of art. There was wonder in his eyes, not just calculation.

John’s fingers brushed against Sherlock’s. He leaned up on his toes, and Sherlock bent slightly. The rocking of the sea, which had dominated John’s senses for the last week, seemed suddenly to still. The hand that was not entwined with Sherlock’s reached up and hovered over a shoulder. Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock was pressed up against John, distracting him and grounding him at the same time, in a most pleasant fashion.

When they broke apart, John was breathless. Sherlock looked at him nervously, as if expecting John to lash out.

“That,” he said, “was brilliant.”

Sherlock grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

John tried to keep from rolling his eyes as he held hands with Harry and a sniffling woman in lavender. A séance was not his idea of a good time, or even a good idea – but Harry had gotten the infernal idea that it would help calm his war wounds. As if a made-up story could help anything. 

The leader, Madam Prytkova, was prattling on. _Why are they always Russian_ , John thought and shook his head slightly. _Or, why are they always pretending to be Russian?_

He roused himself from the silent judgment when Harry gave his hand a quick squeeze. She shot him a look, and John realized he must at least pretend to pay attention. He put a serious listening face on.

Just then, Prytkova’s assistant, a gangly man with a stutter, burst into the room. The light from the hallway poured in, almost blinding the table.

But John saw the gun and leapt to his feet – tackling the man in barely a moment.

“Unhand me this instant!” A surprisingly deep voice bellowed. “If you value your sister’s life, _get off of me!_ ”

John rolled to the side, and the assistant trained the gun on Prytkova – who was in the midst of pulling a throwing knife out of her stocking. The man cocked the pistol, and she froze.

The table of mourners and saps was frozen in shock. Prytkova dropped the accent – _finally,_ John thought – and let out a furious scream before launching herself out of an open window.

John turned to stare at the assistant, who swore and dove headfirst after the surprisingly spry spiritualist. John turned to Harry, who was just as bewildered.

“Well,” Harry said, “You’d better go after them.”

John poked his head out the window and looked down – they were on the first story, but it was at least a six-foot drop – and saw the assistant, still tall but somehow no longer gangly, sitting squarely on top of Prytkova.

He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and struck a match.

 

 

Hours later, when the police had taken Prytkova away in chains, the assistant – _Mr. Holmes,_ John corrected himself – turned to John and gave him an appraising look.

He held out his hand. “John Watson.” Holmes did not shake his hand; rather, he looked at it like a baffling problem to be solved. A quick shake of his head seemed to bring Holmes to his senses.

“Doctor, soldier, skeptic. You could be very useful,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I could use an assistant. Someone who knows their way around the human body.”

John felt his cheeks burn, and his stomach dropped. Was he – no. No, that was impossible.

The corner of Holmes’ mouth twitched up.

“Very few things are actually impossible, Watson. Merely improbable.”

And with that, Holmes winked and walked out the door. 

The second he was out of sight, John began to have a most distressing crisis. He began immediately convincing himself that he’d imagined the last two minutes – is that all it had been? Holmes had seemed to read his mind, and then he had _winked._ There was a queer sensation in his stomach and the world tilted slightly to the right and then jolted back into place. John took a breath, and scrambled out the front door.

Holmes was standing on the corner, once again lighting his pipe. When he saw John, he threw down the match.

“Sir,” John began. “I have the strangest feeling we have met before.”

The only answer from Holmes was a disarmingly gentle smile, and a card, slipped between John’s fingers. He looked down at it.

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Detective_

_221B Baker Street_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little different, so let me know if you like it?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere between 1490 & 1495...

It was pitch black outside when a banging noise roused John. He groaned, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and reluctantly set his feet on the ground. He was closest to the door, so this was his task – ministering during midnight emergencies.

He shuffled toward the door of his room and pulled on his rough woolen habit. Through the hallway, with the knocking still strong, and to the front door. He grumbled and lifted the thick wooden bar, then pushed the door open a few inches.

Outside, a tall man stared back at him – soaking wet. John made a quick check of the sky: cloudless. His mouth opened with a question, but the stranger interrupted him before the words got out.

“Not rain, creek,” he said in a deep voice. “And I find myself in need of refuge.”

John opened the door wider and stood aside. The man waltzed right in, as if it were unremarkable to knock on a monastery door in the middle of the night.

“Er…” John wasn’t sure quite where to begin. “Refuge from what?”

The stranger waved a hand dismissively.

“The elements, pesky villagers, mind-numbing boredom,” he said. John just shook his head and smiled.

“If you’re trying to avoid boredom, you’ve come to the wrong place,” he told the visitor, who cocked his head to the side and stared at John. His cheeks began to warm; the man seemed to look right through him, see into his depths.

“You’d be more bored as a soldier,” the man told John. “That was the original plan, wasn’t it? You’re fortunate, really, that your shoulder forced you to give it up.” John instinctively flexed the self-same shoulder; how the devil did the man know? He was about to ask when – “Soldier to man of God; not an easy transition. Why… oh! Of course!” The man smiled and nodded his head.

“Of course?” John prodded.

“Only way to really learn, isn’t it?”

At that, John let out a small smile and introduced himself to Sherlock. Then he led him to a small room off the corridor, the one where travelers sometimes spent the night. As John turned to leave, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve.

“I’m here to stay, John,” he said plainly. John shook his head.

“You couldn’t stand a day in here. Even I can see that,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

 

 

Two months later found them sitting across from each other in the library. John had his nose in a new book. A traveler had just brought it to the abbey – copied from Da Vinci’s new anatomical drawings. John found the study of man fascinating, and useful in his ministry – tending to the sick in the nearby village. 

Sherlock was not interested in mingling with the congregation. He’d surprised John with his interest in the ascetic life. Thinking back on the first night they met, and how Sherlock had declared himself bored, John smiled a bit.

That’s when Sherlock looked up from his illumination – a lovely, ornate H – and scowled.

“Quiet! We’re in a library, for God’s sake!” Sherlock scolded John, who rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t say a thing,” he protested. Sherlock gave his foot a small kick under the table.

“I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock said. “Inconvenient time for you to start.” Sherlock sneaked a glance through his eyelashes, just in time to see John burst out laughing. The few monks who shared the library with them glared; there was even one ‘shhh’.

“Incorrigible,” John whispered, but he was smiling. Sherlock looked back at his page, blank so far except for the H, and picked up his pen.

John found that he still didn’t quite believe that Sherlock was a permanent fixture at the abbey. Even after weeks of near-constant companionship, even after Sherlock had moved in to share John’s room, it didn’t seem real. Perhaps, John thought, it was just too easy. Sherlock had appeared out of nowhere, sprung from darkness; and then, for the first time in years, John had a true friend. One he could share all things with.

And Sherlock seemed to share the notion; there were no barriers between them, no words unsaid. Or rather, no thoughts unexpressed. Frequently, John didn’t have to utter a word to be fully understood. It had been that way from the very start, when the damp stranger had shown up on the abbey doorstep.

 

 

John was ruminating on the nature of that friendship one day, rolling bandages for his kit. He startled when a hand settled on his neck, but soon the sound of Sherlock’s voice put him at ease.

“If I had known, John,” Sherlock paused to clear his throat. “If I had known that night, what I was stumbling upon…” John turned his head to look up at Sherlock. There was an unexpected tenderness of Sherlock’s face, and John brought a hand up to cover Sherlock’s, still resting on his collar. He took a deep breath and continued.

“I fear that I would never have come in at all, had I known that I’d never be able to leave.”

John was crestfallen for an instant – then he considered, for a moment, Sherlock’s perspective. Walking into a rural abbey, looking for a single night’s shelter, and finding… Well. Finding something remarkable.

“And I do fear it, John. How close I could have come to never knowing you. Never finding you,” Sherlock finished quietly.

It was all John could do to grasp Sherlock’s hand and press a soft kiss to his fingers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between 1802 & 1810

John whistled as he walked down the country lane. The people in the village were quite keen that their new doctor pay a visit to this cottage. Oddly keen, if you asked John.

He surveyed a small cottage overgrown with ivy. _This must be the place_ , he thought. Small cottage on the edge of the family’s estate; thatched roof in bad repair; odd clanging sounds coming from inside. It certainly fit the description.

John knocked on the front door. The sounds immediately stopped, and heavy footsteps approached the door. It opened just a crack, and a grey eye looked out at him.

“Hello?” John said when there was no greeting. “I’m the new doctor, John Watson. I wanted to offer my services –“

Suddenly the door was flung wide open, and the man pivoted and headed into the heart of the house. John paused for a moment, then followed.

He stopped short when he entered the kitchen. There was a fire burning in the hearth, but the counters and table were stacked with scientific equipment – test tubes and beakers and an alarming amount of smoke. A chair was piled high with books; one, John saw, was _The Complexifying Force_ by Lamarck. He himself had read it soon after it was translated. The other titles were lost to inky fingerprints and other stains of mysterious origin.

The man did not turn to look at him, but John heard a rich voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” John shook his head, confused.

“How did you know I was coming?”

The man turned and smiled. “I didn’t know. I hoped.” John couldn’t help but smile back, as he wondered what on earth was happening to him.

Soon, they were both laughing – why, John could not say – and the stranger stepped toward him.

“John,” he whispered but didn’t finish the thought.

John nodded and smiled wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question for my dear readers: 
> 
> Do lifetimes matter? As in, should I make sure they don't overlap? For example, I've already written a snippet from WW2... Does that mean I shouldn't write a scene set in the 1950s, as the 1940s versions would still be alive?
> 
> Or should I travel wherever inspiration takes me?


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time in two months, John felt solid ground beneath his feet; and for the first time in nearly two years, he saw buildings.

Never had he been so in awe of England – of what people had built, and how they lived their lives!

Oh, the new world had been impressive. Raw, natural beauty; wilderness. _But there’s such a thing as too much wilderness_ , John thought.

He had stopped at the bottom of the gangplank, nearly the last one off the ship. As he paused and took in the harbor’s sights and sounds – not to mention smells – Raleigh came up and clapped him on the back.

“Good man, Watson. You made it alright,” Raleigh said. “Damn good thing we had a doctor out there.”

John shook his head.

“You’d have managed fine. I reckon I caused more trouble than I’m worth,” he said, grinning at Raleigh. He’d miss the man, tyrant though he was. A true adventurer.

“You’ll come to the audience, of course,” Raleigh said. John’s alarm showed on his face.

“The _royal_ audience?” he said in disbelief. Raleigh just smiled wickedly.

“Good God, man, she’s just a woman!” Raleigh laughed, and John just shook his head.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said forlornly.

 

 

Raleigh had insisted that John stay with him at Hatfield; and so John found out that life in a palace was decidedly not to his tastes.

He was far from common; he didn’t voyage to Virginia by being common. He was well-respected, well-off, but decidedly not an aristocrat. The type of doctor who’s more tradesman than scholar. And that suited John fine – well, until the wanderlust had set in.

But Raleigh had insisted, and here John was, stumbling over himself not to give the servants any trouble. Raleigh fell into it quite naturally, of course. He relished being waited on. But John had trouble reconciling the concept of nobility. In fact, he found it rather repulsive, that one life should be worth more than another, simply because of who one’s parents were.

At dinner a few nights later, John was trying his damndest to keep that contempt veiled. He made as little conversation as possible, while being polite. He was surrounded by courtiers, many of them young women – bedecked in jewels and heavy fabrics that he didn’t even know the names for. They prattled on about court, and John found he didn’t care at all.

He was frowning pensively at his plate when there was a fuss at the next table over.

“Doctor!” Someone yelled. “Call a doctor!”

John jumped up and saw a man face-down in the soup. He ran to his side, pulled the man’s head back, and took a pulse. The color drained from his face.

“He’s dead,” John announced. The table of nobles tittered.

 

 

Somehow, John had gotten dragged along to the poor man’s chambers. There was a court doctor, a guard, a cardinal, and a retinue of other men. John wasn’t clear on why they were needed, or even why he was needed, now that his initial encounter with the dead man was over. 

In the corridor, the group paused as the guard banged on the door to the dead man’s compound.

“Enter,” a bored voice drawled. The door swung open, and the men all shuffled in.

The court doctor took it upon himself to deliver the news.

“Your Lordship –“ He was quickly interrupted.

“That’s my uncle,” the voice said. John spotted an ankle hanging off the edge of an armchair, its back to the door. The man must have been sprawled on it.

“It _was_ your uncle, I’m afraid,” the court doctor said meekly. A curly, dark head popped out from behind the wingback.

“Dead?” the man asked. The doctor just nodded.

The man unfolded from the chair – revealing he stood at least half a head taller than everyone else in the room.

“I can assure you that my uncle was in the best health,” he said slowly. “What happened?”

After a pause, John cleared his throat.

“He collapsed into the soup course,” he explained. “Quite suddenly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The man put a sharp gaze on John – examining him closely.

“You were there,” he said. John nodded. “Tell me the courses, quickly. What came just before the soup?”

John was surprised, and stuttered his way through the menu. When he mentioned the eel, the man – _his Lordship_ , John corrected himself – let out a groan.

“No, no, no! Must have been mercury added,” the man muttered. John paled.

“Are you suggesting someone poisoned your uncle?” John asked. The man looked up incredulously.

“Of course,” he said. John looked around helplessly, but somehow, no one around him looked surprised, just… glum.

The dark-haired man suddenly barked at the group.

“Out! Now! Leave me!” All the men scrambled to turn and leave, but John felt a hand tug his sleeve. “Not you,” he said.

 

 

Once they were alone, the man invited John to sit opposite him. He steepled his fingers and leaned back.

“You’re the only one who’s got potential,” he muttered. John frowned.

“Sorry, what? I just happened to be there. I’m not even supposed to be here,” John said. “Just staying with a friend for a couple weeks.”

The man snorted.

“A friend? It’s a rare man who wouldn’t exploit a name like Raleigh. You’re freshly back from America, off the ship within the last four days, I’d say.” The man said plainly. John was speechless.

“How –“ but the man didn’t let him finish.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, offering his hand. “And now, I suppose, Marquis of Berkeley.”

“Dr. John Watson, my Lord.” The marquis rolled his eyes.

“Blasted bloody title. Call me Holmes,” he said, looking John up and down. “I could use a doctor.”

 

 

The next week passed in a blur. John had been nearly held hostage by Holmes; the madman fancied himself an investigator. And John had to admit, he had a talent for seeing the truth in things.

In fact, he was seeing rather a lot of talents in Holmes. The man had a lightning-fast wit, along with pure brainpower. _One of the finest minds in England, no doubt_ , John thought after one particularly brilliant deduction.

Holmes was tracing his uncle’s poisoner slowly but surely. One night they combed through the kitchens, searching for a bottle of silver liquid. The next, they chased their suspect halfway to London. He was a footman, serving the dish at dinner. When John had asked _why_ , Holmes just grinned and mumbled something about the ‘family tradition.’

John got a clearer idea when they caught up to the fellow. He was barely more than a boy; but he confirmed what Holmes had suspected: he and the late marquis had been carrying on.

Once the man was clapped in irons, and John and Holmes had begun the walk back to Hatfield, the detective cast an appraising glance at the doctor.

“You didn’t seem particularly surprised, Watson,” Holmes said.

“About the footman?” John wasn’t sure where this was leading.

“About my uncle’s… habits,” Sherlock said delicately. John snorted.

“I’ve seen a good deal of the world, Holmes,” he explained. “I don’t think there’s much that would surprise me, anymore.”

Holmes nodded. John tried to place the look on his face, and then realized – _relief_ , John thought. _He’s relieved_.

“You know, Watson,” Sherlock said after a few moments, “I’m thinking of leaving court. I could use a doctor – to help with my investigations, and to keep an eye on my affairs.”

John considered the idea, then let a smile shine through.

“What sort of affairs?” he asked. Sherlock gave him a sly smile.

 

 

There was indeed a lot to sort through, now that Holmes was a marquis. Lands to manage, appointments to keep, dinner invitations to refuse. But those duties were nothing compared to the constant tending of Holmes. He had to be stitched up several times a month, after running into trouble on the streets. His investigations put him with an unsavory crowd, who didn’t know that they were tussling with a marquis.

After one blow landed on his neck – _nearly slitting his throat_ , John remembered – Holmes took to wearing one of those ruffs everywhere. John shook his head just thinking of it: his obstinate friend must be the only person in all of England to wear that ridiculous court style for practical reasons. It hid the stitches perfectly. But of course, that didn’t stop Holmes grumbling about it. Nevermind that he had picked a fight with a street thug, nevermind that he had chosen to wear the damned thing, nevermind that he cut a dashing figure in the latest fashion. To him, it was nothing but an inconvenience.

A few days after the knife met Holmes’ neck, he and John got back to the London house after a full day of following clues. As soon as the door shut behind them, Holmes started clawing at his throat, desperate to get the blasted thing off.

“Watson, I can scarcely breathe!” he whined. “Get it off!”

John rolled his eyes.

“You put the damn thing on, you can take it off, Holmes,” he said. Sherlock fixed him with a fierce gaze, one that sucked all the air out of the room.

“John, please,” Holmes said quietly. 

 _He’s never called me that before,_ John realized, and took a deep breath. 

He slowly lifted his hands to Holmes’ neck, ready to untie the ruff. Sherlock bowed his head slightly.

When his rough fingers met skin, John felt a burst of static energy pop. His eyes jerked up to meet Holmes’ – who looked equally surprised. _He looks lost_ , John thought, before slowly untying the ruff and pulling it from Holmes’ neck.

Perhaps he lingered a bit too long, standing so near to Holmes. Perhaps he held his gaze a bit too long. Perhaps he spent a few seconds admiring the length of Holmes’ eyelashes, and the curl on his forehead, and the twinge of pink that colored his cheeks. Perhaps he leaned in just a fraction... Or, perhaps, Holmes leaned in first – and perhaps closed his eyes, and perhaps that led to the tip of his nose colliding with John’s. And perhaps John grasped him by the shoulders and yet didn’t pull away.

Perhaps John took a shallow breath and pressed his lips to Holmes’. Perhaps.

The skin on his lips was almost papery, and John immediately realized what he had done. He took a quick step backwards.

“Holmes, I apologize,” he said formally. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” But as John turned to leave the room, Holmes grabbed onto his sleeve – just as he had all those months ago at Hatfield House.

“John,” he said softly, and pulled him back into his orbit. “John, please don’t… don’t apologize.” John could hear Holmes swallow, could see his pulse beating erratically on his temple. John couldn’t help but press a finger to the thrumming vein, and Holmes closed his eyes when he felt the touch.

“You can’t know…” Holmes shuddered and trailed off.

 _He looks… tortured_ , John thought, and decided to do something about it. With one hand still on Holmes’ brow, John’s free hand wrapped around Holmes’ fingers, clenched around the abandoned ruff.

“I know,” John said softly. Holmes – _Sherlock_ , John corrected himself – looked positively stunned. “I know,” John repeated, and moved in slowly to press a soft kiss onto Sherlock’s mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm not 100% happy with this one... it's a little different than previous chapters. 
> 
> Let me know if you like it, & if you'd like to see more in this vein?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Britpop, anyone?

Sherlock heard the beeping while he was still half-conscious, and the nearly blinding white room confirmed his suspicions – hospital. But how he’d gotten there remained a mystery. He flexed his arms and legs, testing for soreness. He couldn’t detect anything until he brought his hands up to his face. There; a tremor. The door opened with a bang, interrupting his analysis. 

“Well, someone’s rejoined the world of the living,” the doctor said. Sherlock did a quick sweep: shorter than average, fiery temper, veteran, single. Then he quickly dismissed all the information – and the doctor – as dull.

“And how soon can I leave?” Sherlock drawled. The doctor frowned.

“Do you know how they found you?” he asked in an argumentative tone. “With a needle shoved in your arm and half a hair from death?” 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. The doctor came closer to his bedside. 

“Look, the other doctors here may not know exactly who you are, but I’m not a fucking idiot, and I’ve been to Glastonbury,” he said. 

At that, Sherlock felt a pang of anger – and something else he couldn’t quite identify. 

“So? What do you plan to do, call the papers?” Sherlock asked defiantly. “Make some money off the drugged-out rock star?” 

The doctor huffed out a laugh. 

“I’d hardly say star,” he sneered. “Especially not if you keep up this way. We’ve already got one Pete Doherty.” 

That’s when Sherlock finally put a name to that other feeling – embarrassment. Perhaps the doctor knew he’d gone too far; he smiled apologetically.

“Look, you’re brilliant on the bass. But if you keep up this way, you won’t live to make another album,” he told Sherlock, who turned away.

“What makes you so sure that’s not what I want?” Sherlock’s voice was dangerously blank. He sighed dejectedly. “We’re breaking up.”

The doctor waved his hand.

“There will be other bands,” he said.

“Not like The Reticents,” Sherlock said, putting the matter to rest. 

The doctor shook his head and turned to leave.

“Just… take care of yourself, okay? This is coming from someone who’s seen what you can do. Forget about the next Oasis, you could be the next fucking Beatles.”

The doctor closed the door softly, and Sherlock turned to stare at the blank wall. 

 

It was three years later at a dingy club in Shoreditch. Sherlock was positively vibrating after a solo set. The Reticents had long since called it quits – he’d been writing formulaic songs for that pop star, silly name that slipped his mind. Not much of a voice, but she could have a future in acting if she buckled down. Sherlock could rattle off a radio hit in a couple hours, then pick at his piano for weeks, agonizing over songs meant for himself. The contradiction infuriated him. 

He swanned over to the bar and ordered a tonic with lime. The man sitting next to Sherlock knocked their glasses together. 

“Good show, mate,” the stranger said in a strangely familiar voice. Sherlock turned his head to right for the first time. 

“You,” he said, stunned. The man laughed.

“Didn’t think you’d recognize me. Hello again,” the doctor said. 

“That speech is not something I’m likely to forget,” Sherlock said. Under his breath he added, “It’s what got me sober.” The doctor stopped smiling.

“Well, I suppose I’m glad to hear it. Surprised, though. I always felt like such a prick,” he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have said anything if it weren’t my last shift at the hospital.”

“I looked for you, after,” Sherlock said. “They said there was no one of that description working in the ward.”

The doctor had the decency to look embarrassed. 

“Well, no,” he explained. “I may have made a special trip up from the OR after I heard a resident mention your name. I’m John, by the way.”

The doctor – John – held out his hand, and Sherlock shook it.

Sherlock downed the rest of his tonic. 

“Not exactly the Beatles these days,” his voice was bitter. John shrugged.

“Hey, you’ll get there. The stuff you played tonight – really good,” John said. “Remember Wings? All the greats stumbled after a breakup.

“I always thought of myself as the John Lennon, personally,” Sherlock mused. 

John laughed, pleased that Sherlock was playing along.

“No way, man. George Harrison’s the one to aim for.”

They sat for a moment or two, smiling at each other. Sherlock checked his watch and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m working on a few new things, if you’d want to, I don’t know, take a listen?” Sherlock didn’t recognize his own voice – too hesitant, unsure. But John grinned at him and tossed a few bills on the bar. 

“Let’s go,” John said. 

 

That night, sitting on the floor with records strewn around them, Sherlock played song after song for John – until he lifted up the needle, looked John right in the eye, and pleaded: “Don’t disappear again.” 

John laughed and kissed the worry lines away.


End file.
